With You to the End
by mosylu
Summary: He died alone once. She's determined that it won't happen again. Angsty Killervibe futurefic.


(A/N) Someone prompted me with "last cuddle" for my cuddle prompts series on Tumblr and this came out. Got Kleenex?

* * *

Caitlin turned off the car and sat for a moment, listening to it settle. It was old, she thought, and rolled her eyes at herself in the rearview mirror.

 _She_ was old.

She pressed the tips of her fingers against a spot on the inner curve of her breast. A hard, irregular lump buried in the soft tissue pressed back. Was it larger?

"Just hang on," she whispered to herself. "It can't be too much longer."

She eased herself out of the car and went slowly into the house through the side door.

The overnight nurse heard the door open and came into the kitchen. "What did the doctor say?" she asked in a low voice.

"About what I expected," Caitlin said, and changed the subject. "How is he doing?"

"All right. He slept, mostly. I gave him his meds about a half an hour ago."

"That's good," Caitlin said, glancing at the time. "And you're off now, I think."

"I can stay if you want."

"No, it was very kind of you to stay an extra couple of hours this morning so I could go to my appointment."

"It was no problem." The nurse gathered up her purse and her coat. "Have a good day, Dr. Snow."

"Mmm." Caitlin waited until the front door shut before she went into the other room.

The hospital bed was set up in the living room because it was the biggest room in the house. They'd needed every inch to accommodate the different machines that beeped and murmured and wheezed, keeping Cisco comfortable as life slowly loosened its hold on him.

His hair was entirely white now, almost blending in with the pillow. His hand, knuckly and liver-spotted, lay on the blanket, curled gently into a soft c-shape. His body under the blankets had the deflated, toneless look of someone who'd lost a great deal of weight in a short time.

Metas lived long, but when the end came, it came hard. Sometimes she thought the ones who'd died fighting had been the lucky ones.

At her step, his eyes opened. "Hey," he breathed.

"Hey," she said back, easing herself down to sit on the edge of the bed.

His hand quested out for hers, and she caught it. "Where'd - you go?" he murmured between gasps for air. She had to listen hard to discern it between the sharp beeps of the heart monitor and the wheezing sighs of the machine that cranked out oxygen to supplement what his lungs could no longer fully provide.

"Out," she said.

His lips curved under the cannula that cut his familiar face in half. "To get - me a - surprise?"

"Sure," she said.

His hand squeezed, as much as he was able. "No - really. Where'd - you go?"

She hesitated. "To see the doctor."

"What - my doctor?"

"No, mine."

"Every - thing okay?"

"I'm a hundred and seventeen years old, Cisco," she said. "Okay is a moving target at best."

His eyes, still dark and knowing under the bristling white brows, within the stacked and nested wrinkles, searched hers. He squeezed her hand, the tiniest increase of pressure. "C'mere."

"I'm already here."

"No, lie - down with - me."

"I don't want to hurt you."

"Everything hurts," he said, not complaining, just stating a fact of old age and dying.

She kicked off her soft flats - she'd stopped wearing high heels every day when she'd hit seventy, and stopped wearing them entirely when she'd turned a hundred. Moving carefully, both for his sake and her own, she drew her legs up onto the bed and settled down next to him. At one time, he would have shifted to make room, but these days, every ounce of energy he had was used up in the business of keeping him alive.

Their bodies were different than they had been, long ago. They were both heavier, less lithe, less strong. But they still fit like they always had.

She settled her head on the pillow next to his. A few strands of her hair - white from age now, not from ice - mingled with his. "So what did you do all day?" she asked.

His eyes had drifted closed again. "Mmm," he murmured. "Dreamed."

"Vibes?" As his illness had progressed, his vibes had slipped the leash he'd put on them decades ago and started turning up independently again.

His head moved on the pillow, a little shake. "No. Memories."

"Who?"

"Ronnie," he breathed. "Dante. Joe. My mama. Cindy. Iris. Barry."

His beloved dead, visiting his dreams. Many of them crossed over into hers now.

"I dreamed about H.R.'s funeral," he went on. "You remember that day?"

She did. Oh, she did. She'd felt adrift, a balloon with its string cut, somewhere in between the good yet powerless person she'd always thought she was, the vicious person that had emerged along with her powers, and the person she wanted to be, that could somehow find the best of both.

Sometimes Caitlin wanted to reach back in time to take her younger self in hand and tell her _It doesn't have to be this hard, you know._ But she'd had to learn that on her own.

"Yes," she said. "I remember."

His eyes opened. "You said - something to - me under the - tree. You remember - that?"

She caught her breath, finally realizing what he was getting at.

 _Let me go,_ she'd told him. Begged him. His hand had dropped from her shoulder and his face had flickered with emotion, but he'd let her go when she'd needed to go. It was the most loving thing he'd ever done for her.

"Yes," she whispered. "I remember that too."

His eyes searched for hers. They looked so tired - exhausted by the effort of living. "Caitlin - "

She pressed her lips together, trying to hold back the tears. "I understand. It's okay."

"Is it?"

"Yes."

"I don't - want to leave - you alone."

She almost laughed. "I know. But it won't be too long." She rested her hand on his face, stroking the papery skin. "It's okay. I mean it. Go on."

He held her gaze, and she listened to his gasping breath, his chest shaking with effort of drawing air in, letting it out. In, out.

In. Out.

In.

Out.

 _Out._

Somewhere far away, the mechanical beeps slowed to a thin shrill.

She watched the light slip away from his eyes.

A choking sob burst from her throat, a last grasping denial - but no. It was what he'd wanted. And it was what she'd wanted.

But the world was already darker without him in it.

Her hand still lay on his cheek. She stroked it as thin whimpers escaped her lips and tears trickled down over the bridge of her nose, wetting the pillow. "You were a good man," she whispered to what was left behind. "You loved your friends and family, you fought for what was right, and whenever possible, you were kind. I love you, and I'll see you soon."

The warmth of his body was fading incrementally. She reached up and closed his eyes.

She sighed and pulled her hand away. It wasn't Cisco any longer. She looked up at the ceiling, feeling chilly tears trickle down over her temples.

She should get out of this bed. She should call someone. Things had to be done.

She lifted her hand and touched the inner slope of her breast again, pressing. The hard lump pressed back. Yes, it did feel larger.

One of the cruel ironies of a hypermetabolism was that cancer, which wasn't a foreign invader but the body's own cells turning on itself, tore through the body at an accelerated rate.

Weeks, she thought. Or days.

That was okay. It could take her just as it pleased, now that she couldn't possibly die before him. He had died alone once. She'd ensured that it hadn't happened again.

That was enough.

FINIS


End file.
